


Sacrament

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [10]
Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Grief/Mourning, Harm to Children, Human Sacrifice, Religious Fanaticism, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2019-09-16 10:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16952076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: Dr. Fitch fulfills his obligation to Shepherd's Glen.





	Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for goretober 2016; prompt "lacerations"

It is the holiest of sacraments and the highest of honors to please God and give life anew at each semicentennial turn of the cosmic calendar. That is what he is told. That is what he believes.

(Hands like porcelain. Smile like sunshine.)

Life is given by life being taken away, a destructive nurturing akin to the serpent devouring its own tail; the lives of many are preserved by the sacrifice of one. That is what he is told. That is what he believes.

(She looked up at him with tears shining in her large eyes, begging and pleading for him to stop hurting her. And he tried to explain even though they told him not to, he tried to tell her of his wonderful and benevolent God who watched over them and would surely receive her in paradise, who had dolls and ballet slippers and everything she could ever want waiting, he was sure of it. Something good must come to those who suffer so much for the rest of us, he thought, surely, surely there would be something good waiting for her. God would take care of her.

His hands trembled around the scalpel.

She cried and cried and cried, and when at last she fell still and silent, he looked down at his hands red with his own daughter’s blood and he wept in her stead.)

It is the holiest of sacraments. He is unworthy. It is the highest of honors. He is tainted by his sin and his doubts and he is unworthy. But he wants to know how she felt then, strapped down to the table, confused and frightened and asking, “Daddy, what are you doing?”

He chokes on a sob. He is unworthy.

(He purchased a statue for her grave, a cherub with curled ringlets holding a cascading garland in one hand and a pair of shears in the other. He went to see it everyday, knelt at its feet and told it how much he loved it, because he felt as though its eyes were hers and its hands were hers and it was her looking down on him, and he heard her laughter faintly in his ears.

He had loved her more than anything else. He had made her life perfect. He had never allowed her to suffer, to want for anything, to face hardships. He thought she deserved that, pure lamb of the sacrament, she deserved to be loved as God loved the world, wholly and unconditionally.)

He kneels before a box of toys and crayon drawings, frozen still images from an irretrievable time, and he looks up at the ceiling. Towards the sky, towards the heavens, towards God who asked this of him.

“I am not worthy,” he breathes. “I am tainted by my sin and my doubts. I humbly ask for Your strength and Your guidance.”

He takes the scalpel and runs it along the flesh of his arm, testing the weight, seeing how the cool metal feels, watches how it glints in the low light. He pushes down hard enough to break the skin and gasps as blood bubbles to the surface. It stings a bit. He expected that. He can’t stop now.

“Holiest of holy spirits,” he whispers. “Blessed one. Exalted one. I want to bleed out my sin. I want to drain myself of doubts.”

He looks at the pale and veiny underside of his arm and slices across it, wincing at the pain that radiates from the wound, but it is not enough. It is never going to be enough.

(Not once had he been happy about his wife’s death, but there was a small silver lining in her passing. He couldn’t imagine she would’ve been able to bear the weight of his family’s oath, their promise to God all those years ago. He was robbed of any joy at his daughter’s conception by his knowledge of her fate, knowing that she was only being born to die. He thought at times he was fortunate that in the end it was only the two of them, that he would not have to share that suffering.

Other times, he truly wishes he was not alone.

How cruel it was that his wife should pass away, to leave him with an emptiness that he knew would only widen with time, consuming everything he loved. How cruel it was that God saw fit to take her, and then his daughter.

No.

No, God did not take his daughter.

He gave her willingly.)

He is shivering, tears running down his face like the rivulets of blood flowing down his skin, deep incisions across his calves and shoulders and chest and forearms—and nearly his wrists, nearly straight down rather than straight across, but he stops himself because he does not deserve the respite of death. The cuts do not hurt as much as his memories of her, the way she screamed at him to stop and asked him why, “Daddy, why are you hurting me?” and no matter what he said the answer wasn’t good enough, he couldn’t make her understand. 

It was God’s will. It was God’s love. It was the pact the Fitch patriarch made long ago for the good of the town. He told her she was important, that she was going to save their lives, that she was pure and holy and God had chosen her to make the world better. He told her he loved her, but she just cried.

(O Lord,

Save us with your compassion.

O Lord,

Shower us with your blessings.

O Lord,

Favor us with your abundance.)

“Forgive me,” he tries to say but he chokes on the words, the scalpel clattering to the floor as he collapses, trembling. “Forgive me, for I am tainted by my sin and my doubts. I am unworthy. I am unworthy of you….”

He is not praying to God anymore. He hasn’t prayed since the sacrament. He has only ever thought of her, called out to her, and begged for her forgiveness.


End file.
